Piano Player

Inside your room there’s 40 few 

remaining figures of new moons 

to curve around your axle heart 

in hopes that something new will start.

They’re winding down they’re closing ranks

to rest another 30 days. 

You lay and watch them wax and glow. 

You hold them in your hand and let them...

A kid half my age, baby’s breath and meadow sage clutched in her hands like trophy game, just like the wild world was tame, was granted home and tender care into an awkward piece of ware three-quarters full or quarter-drained and both adversely sure how long they will sustain.

My eyes greet hers and hers do mine and then the room becomes her shrine. An older ma'am sets herself straight and then she smiles with 88 remembered loves and morning suns until her woven was sung. Her fingers dropped like falling rain. The entire room awash with the sustain.

You always said that you don’t dance but then a heel turn to a shadow stance. I’m rung like sodden cloth. And the autumn leaves turn over across your floor, into the hall and I’ve declined into a crawl and you decompress and fall away but this floor is raised on beams of trust and there’s room enough for both of us so stay. Sustain.

Inside your room there’s 40 few

remaining figures of new moons 

to curve around your axle heart 

in hopes that something new will start.
The things you grow are set to die.

You cling to them with knuckles white. 

So wind me up, damper to floor 

and I don’t know if I know love no more.